


All the Luck in the World

by novadiablo



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Clothes Sharing, Courtship, Developing Relationship, Flowers, Hair Braiding, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novadiablo/pseuds/novadiablo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur knows as soon as he sees him that Bilbo is the One. Really, that's only the start of his problems. RATING HAS GONE UP. Please be aware of this change. **This work has been abandoned but can be seen as completed**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, though I'd love one.

When the little town of Hobbiton came into view Bofur sighed a big sigh of relief, and it was echoed by the rest of the little gang they had collected on their way along the Baranduin River. Of course, leaving the Blue Mountains it had only been himself, Bombur and Bifur, but they weren’t the only ones to have missed the turn off at the Sarn Ford that Gandalf had instructed them to take; it would have taken them directly to the Burglar’s house. Nevertheless, they continued along the Baranduin and, as luck would have it, met up with Oin and Gloin at the Barrow Downs. It was quite the hike to Brandywine Bridge, but funnily enough, Dori, Nori and Ori, joined by the two Oakenshield nephews, where there at precisely the same time. Before, they had been a weary and overly tired group, and had more than once said ‘hang the burglar’ and wished to just get on with their quest, but after making their way into the Shire they became a merry bunch, laughing and guffawing and patting each other on the backs and overall being the recipients of more than a few dirty looks. The fact that they met Gandalf at the edge of Hobbiton just made them ever more cheerful, even if they had to hear all of Gloin’s stories about his wife and his son Gimli over again. Bofur didn’t blame him in the slightest; Gloin had found his One and none of the others had been so lucky.

Finding the One, and then being so lucky to marry them and bear children, was many dwarves dream, and perhaps the only thing they desired over gold. Of course, finding the One often goes wrong: having them die, not return your love or, in some cases, not even be attracted to your gender, would leave a dwarf broken and lifeless, turning them to gold and jewels for the rest of their days. Those who were pitied the most, however, were the dwarves whose Ones were not of the same species; couplings like this were rare and very few worked out in the end.

Bofur smiled up to Gandalf as they reached the green door but suddenly chaos broke out when Bombur smelled bacon cooking and a kerfuffle began against the front door between the dwarves and suddenly they all fell through. Bofur winced as he struggled to disentangle himself from the pile of dwarf when he suddenly looked up and saw him.

The Hobbit stood by his green door in a frankly charming dressing gown and his bare hairy feet, his hair curling around his ears and the expression on his face as he breathed out the world ‘Gandalf’ purely overwhelmed. Bofur felt his heart shatter, even as he pulled himself up, dusted himself and bowed. “Bofur, at your service,” he said, his voice smaller than usual, and he took off his hat before he was ushered into the dining room by an insistent Bombur, but the pain in his chest was hindering his breathing. The feeling was unmistakable: they had been taught to identify it since they were but dwarvlings.

He was of the pitied, now.

He paid no heed to the hammering in his chest and he played around with the other dwarves, all of which he had met at some point in his life, but every time he saw Bilbo his heart shattered and his spirits lifted and fell at the same time and he just felt very mixed up.

When the hobbit was reading the contract not an hour after their arrival, Bofur felt his distress deep inside, and decided to clarify.

“Think furnace with wings!” He said, and Bilbo’s face didn’t help matters at all. “One flash, then poof! You’re nothing more than a pile of ash.” He thought he was being reassuring, but he had to physically cling to the table to stop himself from running to the hobbit’s aid when the poor lad fainted. Despite his restraint, he got a ‘look’ from Bombur and he felt incredibly exposed. The hobbit retreated into a room with Gandalf not long after they sang their little song for him, and Bofur felt himself lighten up during the chanting of ‘blunt the knives’, because it gave him a chance to play his flute, and there was little he loved more than that.

Afterwards, he and the other dwarves settled and Thorin began to sing and it that type of song you didn’t fall asleep to, so he joined in. He didn’t feel longing for Erebor and piles of gold, though, he felt  a desire for the hobbit only rooms away, and he let his sadness play through his voice. They sang their hearts out, and for a while afterwards Bofur let himself ponder the hobbit.

Eventually, the company fell asleep to the soft sounds of night time Hobbiton.

*

Thorin woke them early the next morning but they were all in high spirits, even Bofur, for they were rested and fed, and ready for the road. They prepared quickly and quietly, and Bofur went through the motions – chowing down the bread and cheese and sipping at the tea made by Bombur, tightening his braids, pulling on his socks, placing his dagger in his shoe and tugging them on, making sure that all of his tools were carefully placed in his pack, tying his cloak at his collarbone and securing his hat firmly above his hair. After this, he waited by the door, holding his mattock firmly in his hand, waiting for Fili, Kili and Bombur to finish getting their possessions together.

They were to make their way down to the Brandywine Bridge to collect their horses, before wandering along the East West road (but avoiding Bree), and enjoying the time they had before they reached the Misty Mountains. It was likely they would have to leave the ponies then, perhaps even near Rivendell, and the rest of their journey would likely be on foot – something Bofur hardly minded but Bombur would hate. Only once did he glance back into the house as he waited by the green door, and as Gandalf walked past him into the front yard, he murmured quiet words to Bofur. “Be patient,” was all he said, and while Bofur felt embarrassed that Gandalf had seen through him so easily, his heart lifted.

He stayed with his thoughts as they made their way through Hobbiton in the dim morning light, not yet awake enough to be the noisy crew they had presented to the sleepy village yesterday. Gandalf walked beside him for some of the trip and though they were both silent he calmed Bofur in a way that he hadn’t experienced with anyone else, though it could simply have been the second-hand smoking he was receiving from the pipe in the wizard’s hand. He’d kill to get his hands on some of the stuff packed in there, whatever it was. Thorin called out to him from the front of the pack not an hour into the walk, though, so he squeezed Bofur’s shoulder and made his way to the front of the line. Bombur’s questioning look was interrupted by Nori and Gloin, who both deliberately fell in step next to Bofur.

“Do you think he’ll show?” they asked in unison, and Bofur laughed uncomfortably under his breath.

“Course ‘e will,” he said quickly, “Not a doubt in the world.” Nori laughed but Gloin looked at him cheekily.

“Are you willing to bet on it?” He asked, the two of them giggling. Bofur agreed, and put in ten florins. He ignored the now suspicious look from his brother; he knew Bombur would argue with his conclusion that Bilbo was his One and he felt angry just thinking about it. It was no way to start their adventure anyhow, hobbit or not.

They met a middle-aged hobbit farmer unfortunately named Farmer Maggot on the East Road who told Gandalf, an old friend, that he was heading to a farm called Bamfurlong. He kindly gave them some lemon-flavoured drink from his cart to refresh them before they continued on to the Brandywine Bridge, something they all thanked him profusely for, as it was very delicious and an unknown delicacy to the dwarves, who tended to subsist on mead and the occasional beer. When they reached the Bridge Bofur’s hopes fell quite dramatically; it would take the Hobbit a long time to catch up to them now.

A ranger friend of Gandalf’s who kept his face and his name hidden held the horses and ponies that had been supplied on the far side of the bridge, and before allowing the company to cross Gandalf went over to speak with him. Thorin waited, but only because he didn’t trust the ranger across the bridge; he was itching to go and not enjoying the delay. The ranger and the wizard spoke for quite a time; not quite an hour but not far from it, and then they were allowed to cross the bridge. The ranger continued to keep his face hidden, but as he handed a fair pony over to Bofur he commented idly, “Hobbits are quick on their feet, you know.”

Bofur felt his smile grow and once again felt a mixture of embarrassment and happiness, and he swore he heard the ranger chuckle. He swung on to his horse with renewed vigour and made his way up the group to ride next to Nori. The dwarf had bet against Bilbo, but Bofur felt he needed to make an effort not to hold it against him, if only to deny to his brother Bilbo’s One status.

They picked their way through the gentle forests around Bree and Bofur allowed himself to enjoy the filtered sunlight, even if he found his mind wandering to what it might look like glinting in the Halfling’s curly blonde hair. He didn’t even have to wait to find out; they were not far into the forest when calls of ‘wait! WAIT’ came from an unforgettable voice behind them and Bofur felt like his heart was in his stomach and his throat at the same time. He felt an enormous sense of relief that he knew he had no right to feel, but the hobbit’s presence made the sun shine brighter in the world.

“I signed it,” Bilbo said, and he sounded proud, just as proud as Bofur felt that the hobbit had become an adventurer. He saw Bilbo’s reluctance to ride a pony and couldn’t help chuckling, and though he desperately wanted to offer Bilbo to share his pony, he knew he couldn’t, and he also felt that Bilbo might be a bit embarrassed by it. Oin then called for Nori to pay up little bags of florin began to fly around and Bofur hoped the hobbit saw him catch his. Instead, when Bilbo got upset over the forgotten handkerchief he offered up his torn shirt, and smiled widely at the Hobbit, hoping to convey how pleased he was that he had joined the company. The other dwarves laughed at him, but he found he didn’t care and the hobbit caught the cloth with adequate accuracy.

They ventured on, but Bofur’s smile didn’t waver.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed, again. Feel free to nitpick as you read. For anyone wondering at accuracy, while I've read the book more times than I can count, I'm finding it easier to go by the movie's event timeline (I have a rubbish version from Thailand that is no good for watching as it feels like a sin to the glory of the film but is good for reference). Another thing: the Khuzdul spoken in this fic translates roughly to "his the one who marries." I know it's not great, but it was the best I could do. Thanks so much for your comments and kudos!

Their first night’s camp was overhung by a large rock, but Fili and Kili staked claim of it before Bofur had the chance to, so he sat near the fire and was pleased as punch when the hobbit took a place nearby. Of course, Balin had to make it all quiet by telling the story of Thorin and his Oakenshield, a story Bofur had heard more time than he could count. He watched the hobbit looking at Thorin, though, and he felt worry tug at him.

Thorin was much more of a hero than he, a lowly orphaned toymaker with few brave bones in his body, and he was also a possible king. That alone would be more appealing to Bilbo than Bofur’s abilities on the flute or his nimble fingers whittling wooden figures; besides, Thorin had majesty and a brooding personality, something many a dwarven lass had told him he lacked. Of course Bilbo would be attracted to Thorin.

The camp was quiet that evening; the company was still not quite comfortable with each other, keeping to their brothers. Many were mulling over Balin’s story of Azog the Pale Orc and Thorin sat broodily alone, ignoring the many glances he received. Bilbo remained close to Gandalf, so Bofur sat with Bifur, who watched him ungrudgingly. “Khi yâsithâl,” his cousin said, and Bofur just nodded, puffed on his pipe a little, and then snuggled into his bedroll. It was a long and cold night and Bofur found it hard to depart from his thoughts, but as he did his dreams swirled through the faces of Thorin, his brother, the ranger, Gandalf, and prominently, Bilbo.

*

The next morning they were greeted by rain. It wasn’t overly heavy, nor was it the type to carry with it thunder and lightning, but it was persistent; the kind that soaks through one’s cloak and leathers and skin and lingers in the bones, chilling from the inside out. The morale of the company was relatively low, but Bofur felt happy at seeing the little hobbit’s hair soaked down around his ears because he had decided one day he would lend Bilbo his hat and that pleased him immensely. He tried using his pipe to little avail – any smoke he could bring to life was quickly put out by the damp. Nevertheless, he persevered, and kept one eye on the hobbit the whole day. He watched as Bilbo chatted with and amused their tall wizard, and decided to join them.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” He said smilingly to the two creatures, and while Gandalf huffed out a laugh Bilbo looked at him with a dead, unamused expression in his eyes.

“It’s really not,” he said, and he was shivering violently, his entire body soaking wet.

“You’re right,” Bofur conceded, looking at the lovely little thing with concern in his eyes, “the weather is horrible, and the rain is torrential and it feels like this day is going to go on forever. But look around you Bilbo; look at the green of the trees, the soggy little birds cuddling to their mothers, and the squirrels chattering to each other from far across the forest. It can’t be that bad, after all.”

The hobbit only hummed thoughtfully and dropped back, so Bofur moved ahead to ride next to Gandalf. The wizard looked down at him a bit critically, but otherwise ignored the dwarf’s presence. After riding in a comfortable silence for a time which Bofur couldn’t count, he spoke up.

“Could you do nothing for the Halfling, Gandalf? He’s shivering in his boots.” He asked, and the wizard looked down at him.

“Why not lend him your hat, if you are so determined to see him warm,” the wizard said, raising his alarmingly hair eyebrows.

“You know the meaning of that in our culture Master Wizard, and I find meself not quite ready for the rest of our party to know of me predicament,” Bofur answered quietly, and the wizard just huffed and he felt his hopes drop. The Gandalf lifted his staff only minutely and cleared his throat. An almost unnoticeable flash of light flared from the gnarled end of the staff and a little yelp erupted from Bilbo, not unlike the hourly ones he issued when he almost fell off of his pony (again), so few dwarves paid attention. Bofur looked back to see Bilbo’s startled face staring at him, so he winked and smiled widely before looking ahead and finding his pipe was functioning.

The smoke in the pipe warmed him, just as the knowledge that he hadn’t seen Bilbo even glance at Thorin all day did so, and he continued to ride next to the wizard. He and Gandalf didn’t know each other so well, but Bofur prided himself in his ability to read people, at least to a reasonable extent, and he knew for all of Gandalf’s hard exterior was a friendly giant with a soft spot for hobbits, or so the rumours knew. Word had it that the Wizard would often attend hobbit parties to show off his magical fire crackers and dazzle the homely little things with his booming voice and his sweeping beard quite often, and Bofur thought that was quite lovely. He liked to think that Gandalf liked him too, for he had ways of being kind that did not scream for attention and because of this many people did not see the acts, but Bofur always did.

*

They stopped at a derelict shack for the night, and though it looked just as good a place as any to Bofur Gandalf seemed to be hesitant to camp, and Bofur could hear an argument between their leader and the wizard. It was likely that Gandalf was in the right on the matter; Thorin was strong-headed and Bofur had only ever heard him speak so passionately about elves. Thorin was their leader though, and he’d hardly appreciate any interference from a lowly toy-maker such as himself.

He hefted his mattock off his shoulder as Gandalf strode angrily past, grousing at the poor hobbit even though the little thing had done nothing wrong. His wavery little voice piped up asking Balin if Gandalf was coming back, and Bofur felt a flash of anger. He knew the wizard didn’t mean what he’d said and that he was just frustrated by Thorin, but it was natural for him to feel protective of his One. Ignoring Thorin’s command to Bombur, he made his way over to the Hobbit.

“Don’t worry yerself, Master Baggins, he’ll be back when we need him,” he said, patting the hobbit on the back, “though he’d do well to be a bit kinder to those who’ve done no wrong.”

Bilbo looked up at him and smiled and Bofur felt his heart light on fire. “C’mon, why don’t you help my brother and I make some food for this sorry lot. Cooks get extraaas…” he raised his eyebrows and smiled, using the infectious happiness that was mostly a burden to convince the little hobbit to keep himself busy.

They didn’t speak again for the time they were cooking but when they were finished Bilbo lost his distraction and began fretting again. Bofur left him to it while he was serving out even portions for their company figuring the hobbit would speak out when he wanted to, and he did.

“He’s been a long time,” the hobbit said, stepping off the tree trunk, and looking at the relaxed dwarves around him.

“Who?” Bofur asked, joining in with their attitudes, hoping to calm Bilbo.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo said, and he sounded frustrated, but Bofur didn’t take it to heart. Instead, he decided to try and keep him busy again; it worked last time.

“He’s a wizard, he does as he chooses. Here.” The Halfling turned around. “Do us a favour, take this to the lads.”

The hobbit wandered off to where Fili and Kili were but not ten minutes later Fili came running back to the camp. “They’ve got him, they’ve got the hobbit!” He yelled and the whole camp froze.

“Who does?” said Bofur, dropping the ladle he was holding and grabbing for his mattock.

“TROLLS,” he called from where he is following his brother, his warhammer tight his hands. As he disappeared the whole camp became a flurry of movement and they trampled through the forest with cries of war. After that was a blur for them all but Bofur kept an eye on the hobbit the whole time, remembering to get in a lovely bone-breaking swing on one of the troll’s feet.

His heart entirely stopped when the hobbit got swept up by two of the trolls and the look of fear on the poor Halfling’s face made him want to cry, which was a very un-dwarvish thing  to want to do and quite embarrassing to say the least. Of course, there was little he could do, being quite thoroughly tied to the makeshift spit.

Bilbo started speaking, but Dori interrupted him. “You can’t reason with them, they’re halfwits!”

“What does that make us?” Bofur replied, annoyed at the dwarf for interrupting Bilbo. For all anyone knew he might have a personally reasonable plan. It turned out he did, after bumbling away and nearly getting them all skinned.

“He’s got worm in his, his… tubes,” the hobbit said, and soon after Gandalf arrived, just like Bofur said he would. He decided then that he had never been gladder to see daylight and he probably never would be. After the trolls had been turned to stone he couldn’t help laughing in relief; it was all a bit funny after the danger had passed.

They were all let down and seeing that Kili and Bombur were taking care of Bifur he took Bilbo back to their camp, using some of the now cooled water to clean him up. He had to refrain from running his fingers through the hobbit’s hair, or touching his skin too much. The troll bogey managed to be mostly scrubbed off.

“Not to worry, lad,” he tried to comfort Bilbo, scrubbing his hair a bit with some crushed up flower-water, “once we get to near a nice cool stream you can have a proper wash.”

Bilbo scrubbed at his jacket, clean from mucus on his face and hair, and the company began to look for the troll’s cage. At this point, he was very distracted by copious amounts of gold in the trolls cave, and along with Nori and Gloin he made a ‘long term deposit’ before finding his hobbit again.

He was stopped by Bombur before he could approach the Halfling, and his brother gave him a meaningful look. He turned around, knowing he’d have to face the music, and sooner rather than later.

“Thank you for helping to protect Bilbo,” he said, his voice wavering only a little, but he was shocked to see Bombur smile.

“It would do us all well to protect my brother’s One, Bofur. You are very welcome.” Bombur replied, before looking up at the sound of Thorin’s call.

“Something’s coming!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hair-braiding is an important ritual amongst dwarves...

If Bofur was being completely honest, Radagast seemed to him to be a completely ridiculous person, though he tried to not be judgemental. He could see from Bilbo’s face that he agreed, but still Gandalf moved away from the group to speak with him. The company, tired from their night of trolls, stood around lazily, and Bilbo came up to him.

“Seems a bit daft, doesn’t he?” the hobbit asked, and Bofur’s heart jumped that Bilbo had made conversation with him.

“Daft surely is one word of, but ahh, Bilbo, who’re we to interfere with the dealings of wizards?” He sat against a tree, and Bilbo slumped down next to him. He could see the drowsiness in the hobbit’s eyes.

“I’ll surely never understand them.” He said to Bofur, and Bofur smiled, tracing a finger around his mattock. They sat there in the warm sun apart from the other dwarves and both almost dropped off to sleep. It was nice, really, and Bofur’s heart was beating at a leisurely rate and he could smell the scented flowers he’d scrubbed through the Halfling’s hair.

He opened his eyes. “Y’know, Bilbo…”

Suddenly a sound interrupted him and Bilbo startled. “Was that a wolf? Are th- are there wolves out there?”

Bofur jumped up, clutching to his mattock. If there was one sound that could make him shake in his boots, it was that one. “Wolves? No, that is not a wolf.” He hated himself for allowing the waver in his voice, but Wargs were a horrifying creature. One jumped down and then another, but they were swiftly taken care of by Dwalin and Kili and Gandalf had yet another furious conversation with Thorin, and all seemed hopeless. Bofur could see the hobbit shaking and had to seriously refrain from touching him.

“I’ll draw them off,” Radagast the Brown said, and Bofur almost laughed hysterically. The man wouldn’t be able to do naught with a sleigh pulled by rabbits, or so Bofur thought. It seemed that Gandalf agreed.

“These are Gundabad Wargs. They will outrun you!”

“These are Rhosgobel rabbits,” replied Radagast, and looked Gandalf directly in the eye, “I’d like to see them try.”

As the wizard drew the Wargs away from their group, Bofur decided if he ever became as brave as Radagast he would have lived a full life. He then busied himself with running after the group even though it seemed like Gandalf was leading them in circles, and staying close to the hobbit, making sure he ran next to him. One of the Wargs broke off from the group, Orc and all, he couldn’t reach Bilbo as Dwalin was between them, but he reached an arm across the fierce warrior and clutched the hobbit’s sleeve. If Dwalin noticed now was not the time to take heed, and when Kili shot the Orc down, he left them to end its miserable life, and Bofur grabbed for Bilbo. The poor thing was positively fearful, but the chase could only continue.

They were beginning to be surrounded by Orcs and the hobbit ran into the middle of their circle, terrified.

“This way, you fools!” called Gandalf, and Bofur swung himself over, sliding down and looking back to steady the Halfling, before pulling him towards the wall.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and Bilbo only nodded furiously, the poor little thing not even able to speak. Before he could say more, an elven horn sounded and the Orcs died swift deaths.

“I cannot see where the pathway leads,” Dwalin yelled back. “Do we follow it, or no?”

“Follow it, of course!” Bofur called, and that was that. The dwarves began their trek through the caverns and Bofur despaired the many stout people between him and his hobbit, and also the fact that Thorin was so close. He saw how the hobbit glanced between Thorin and Gandalf, and it pleased him to see no admiration in Bilbo’s eyes, but concerned him that he saw fear. He put the thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on the back of Dwalin’s head. He had no doubt Gandalf knew where they were going, but he still couldn’t quite believe it when he saw Rivendell for real.

The place was breathtaking and he’d never seen anywhere like it. The same way the dwarves utilised the stone and rock of the earth to create their world, the elves had become one with the sky and the trees. He could hear Thorin accusing Gandalf behind him, but Bofur didn’t care. The place was beautiful and it held a kind of charm that drew in all around it.

Even as they walked down the great slope and across the bridges, Bofur couldn’t take his eyes off of the place; walking behind Bilbo so he could see both of them at once. Bofur had no quarrel with elves; though he’d never say so in front of Thorin, he believed that Thranduil had done the right thing by his people by not allowing them to face Smaug, and he thought he had every right to say that considering his Ma and Pa had died due to the dragon’s rage.

Gandalf began talking to a dark-haired elf, but soon a horn sounded and they were surrounded by enormous horses, and Bofur dove forward to grab Bilbo, pulling him behind and readying his mattock. The elven group was vast but he’d not go down without a fight. Of course his aggressive instincts had taken over too quickly; the elves meant no harm to them, and they were quickly taken to an immense guest area, and Bilbo disappeared along with Gandalf and Elrond to inspect the map. Bofur felt an intense sadness to see them go, particularly with Thorin as company, but he sat while the other dwarves bathed and ate, making them all laugh by causing Bombur to break the table.

After the dwarves were sated and lying lazily on the ground and their seats, Bofur stole off to the ornate bathing house. He took off his boots and garments, his hat and untied the braids of his hair before slipping into the warm water. He ducked his head under, enjoying the sensation, and then began scrubbing his hair.

He didn’t hear the little footsteps until the hobbit was right by his head.

“My word, Bofur, I’ve never seen you look less ridiculous in my life!” the Halfling joked, and Bofur jumped almost out of his skin.

“Goodness, Halfling, ye tryin’ to scare me to death?” He said, spluttering from the water he accidentally inhaled during his shock. The hobbit just laughed and began to pull off his jacket. Bofur turned to give him a small amount of privacy before speaking again.

“Ye know your hair is getting to be quite the length, Master Baggins. Ye might see yourself with a mighty fine set of braids before this adventure is through, lad.” Bofur heard a plop as the hobbit slid in the water and turned himself around to find a soaking wet little Bilbo only a few metres away. His heart was hammering in his chest quite severely and he felt like breathing was far too difficult.

“If only, these curls are constantly in my way,” the hobbit said, and ducked his head under water quickly and shaking his head before grabbing for some elven soap. Bofur let his eyes roam more than he’d ever admit over the milky skin and petite muscles of the hobbit’s shoulders.

“I could do some braids for you, Halfling,” said Bofur, and even though it didn’t seem possible, his heart beat even faster. The hobbit looked over at him from where he was scrubbing the scent onto his skin and smiled.

“As long as it’s nothing gravity-defying, yes please,” the hobbit looked a little shy and for moment Bofur wondered if he knew what it meant, for a dwarf to braid another’s hair.

“Ah, you couldn’t pull it off anyway,” he said, winking and trying to diffuse the tension. He pulled himself out of the water unashamedly and Bilbo’s eyes widened for a moment before he looked away. Bofur pondered what the look meant, but decided it could go either way and didn’t worry about it. He pulled on his underclothes and set about drying his hair. The elves had supplied what looked like heavy duty combs so he untangled his knots before sitting down by the edge of the warm pool to redo his braids. Bilbo watched with interest as Bofur deftly braided them, pulling the under-pieces more tightly so the braid would curve upwards, just like his Ma had taught him. He didn’t care that it was a childish style; it was his and he owned it well.

He saved one of the clips he would usually use for the hobbit; it would mean they’d have to be redone more often but it was definitely worth it. Bilbo pulled himself out of the pool and dried himself thoroughly, dreading putting on his dirty clothes but not really having another option. He them sat down next to Bofur expectantly. Bofur swivelled a bit on his rump and, without speaking, combed through the hobbit’s smooth hair. He then took the front parts of the hobbit’s fringe and started small braids that met at his crown, leaving the rest free. He took his time, massaging the hobbit’s head and stroking down his neck. Bilbo said nothing, and neither did his companion. After about forty minutes, Bilbo had five tight braids, two starting above his ears, two from his temples and one from the very centre of his forehead, and the all met to be clasped by a silver band.

Bofur then leant forward and, while brushing the back lengths of Bilbo’s hair, inhaled at his neck. The hobbit smelled absolutely wonderful Bofur had never felt so intimate with someone in his life. Bilbo shivered and he moved back again, and for some reason felt compelled to explain the ritual to Bilbo. For a dwarf, there is little more special than braiding ones hair; it is shared between parent and child, brother and sibling or lovers and no others. Of course, Bilbo wasn’t to know that, but when the other dwarves saw him they’d all know immediately.

Good, Bofur decided in a flash of uncharacteristic possessiveness. That’d teach Thorin Oakenshield.

Before he could speak, however, Balin dashed in. Bilbo jumped and turned around quickly, stopping whatever Balin was about to tell them dead in his throat. He looked at Bilbo with wide eyes, and then to Bofur and Bofur gave him the most menacing stare he could muster, which, for all of his friendly demeanour, could beat down one of Thorin’s any day. The other dwarf swallowed before speaking.

“We’re to leave now. We must hurry and we must be quiet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed, thanks so much every for their comments and kudos. Bilbo's braids were minorly influence by Fili's but mostly made up in my own head because I think he'd look rather handsome with the rest of his hair flowing behind his ears. Let me know what you think or nitpick where you feel need. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter because I wanted to post this before bed. Thanks so much for your feedback guys.

The quick departure from Rivendell was, though saddening, quite smooth. Bofur and Bilbo were on the receiving end of more than a few questioning and accusing looks, not least from their leader and future king. They quickly moved away from Rivendell and hit the beginnings of the Misty Mountains by nightfall, but Thorin insisted they keep going until the found a place to camp in the mountains. Bofur could tell that most of the dwarves felt nervous about this, and apparently so could Thorin, so they stopped in a low lying area.

“We will move up the mountains at dawn. I’d like to be halfway through them by nightfall and done with them the next day. They are strewn with Orcs and even one night is a dangerous venture.” Thorin said, though few of them were actually listening, preferring to harass Bombur for their food. Bofur sat a little away with Bilbo by his side. He could feel Dwalin and Thorin’s gaze upon him as they spoke, but chose to ignore them.

“It looks like rain tomorrow,” Bofur said, and Bilbo’s groan was covered by Thorin’s call.

“Bofur! A word please!” He said before moving into the growth further away from the camp. Bofur sighed and Bilbo looked at him questioningly but Bofur just shook his head and followed their leader.

“What you are doing is very foolish,” Thorin said, without preamble. Bofur just stared, unwilling to speak lest he say something significantly detrimental. “You are courting a creature who is taking your kindness as friendship, and when he discovers the true meaning of your actions he may feel obligated to reciprocate, even if the feelings are not mutual.”

Bofur felt his nostrils flare. His heart started beating faster and his blood boiled, but still he said nothing. Thorin looked at him sharply and continued, “He needs to be allowed to make his own decisions.”

Bofur felt himself snap. He’d had enough; more than enough. “So you can swoop and make him choose you?” he yelled and he could feel himself shaking; he was so furious and he watched as anger rose in Thorin. He felt betrayed by his own kind and embarrassingly he could feel tears of rage pricking his eyes.

“So what if he does?” Thorin hollered back, “I would be a better provider; a king!”

“YOU ARE NO KING YET!” Bofur screamed back, a yell twenty times more deafening than Thorin Oakenshield could ever hope to produce. Their camp would have heard it; there was no doubt about it. Something must have shown in his face though, perhaps it was the look of devastation, or perhaps the spittle around his mouth, or the tears, or the way his face crumpled after his outburst, but Thorin’s entire being softened.

“Oh Bofur, I am so sorry,” he said, placing a hand on Bofur’s shoulder, and they stood there until Bofur could pull himself together. The two of them stood, one comforting the other, in the shadow of dangerous peaks and intermittent drops of rain. Bofur pushed his head up eventually, wiping his eyes and feeling a damn sight embarrassed. “I didn’t realise, Bofur,” Thorin said seriously, trying to catch the other dwarf’s eyes with his. “I truly didn’t. I will not approach him any further.”

“Do what you like,” Bofur said, wiping his nose with his sleeve and tramping back to the camp. When he reached the firelight he ignored the stares of the other dwarves who were surrounding the camp silently. He slipped in his bedroll, back to his company, and willed them to begin talking again. Thorin’s arrival effectively did that, and Bofur could feel himself drifting off to sleep; he hadn’t had a wink for long hours and he was exhausted emotionally as well. Of course, a little hobbit sidled up to him in the chaos of many voice.

“Are you okay, Bofur?” he whispered, crouching down. Bofur shuffled around a little, determined not to letter Bilbo so his face.

“I’m afraid I haven't been okay for a while, Master Baggins,” he said softly, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. “If you don’t mind though, I’d really appreciate a rest right now.”

“Sleep well,” said Bilbo.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bofur falls back on his coping mechanism when all goes to shit. It's lovelier than you'd think.

The next day, it was wet, but despite this Bofur felt a little better about things. Thorin promised not to make any move on Bilbo and by the looks of it he was sticking to that promise, almost too well. They began to make their way up the mountains gradually, but the rain was cold here, so chilly it was almost snow.

Many of the dwarves looked a Bofur curiously though he straggled at the back. He could tell his face was a puffy mess despite the cool air and that it was very clear that he’d been crying; an utter embarrassment for a dwarf. None of them spoke of it to him, of course, except for Bombur and Bilbo himself, but both times they were snubbed as kindly as possible. They ate fairly well that first morning having smuggled leftovers from the elves. Bofur couldn’t help but be grateful for the rain though; it had been ghastly hot yesterday.

They trudged on and the day was eventless though a thunderstorm was obviously on the horizon. Bofur could feel his arms getting stiff from carrying his mattock but his bones were so chilled it hurt to stretch them out. He was more concerned for the Hobbit, who was turning increasingly blue. He tried to ignore it as much as he could; he’d caused enough trouble as it was, but thin slopes were coming up.

Sighing and rolling his eyes with a frustration that he didn’t feel pushed his way up line through his fellow dwarves and shoved his hat on the Halfling’s head, scaring him half to death but warming him considerable. He then passed him, flipping his hood up and looking away. He could feel stares on him, but he was beyond caring.

The sun dipped low and they still had not found a suitable cave to rest in. The rain was relentless and the thunder and lightning insistent so they were all feeling quite rubbish even before Bilbo almost took a tumble and then Dwalin’s scream of ‘LOOK OUUUUT!’

Bilbo clung to him in fear as the boulder came crushing over them, and he grabbed his sleeve. It was indeed a thunder battle, the legends were true, and Bilbo crouched with him, but the ground started moving beneath their feet. Things like that shouldn’t happen, Bofur told himself, and it couldn’t be. It was, though, and they were swept through the air; there was little they could do but hold on to the slippery rock for their dear lives. The swung around, their giant quite rubbish at these games, and suddenly a cliff face was coming towards them rapidly.

They survived, but Bofur panicked when he couldn’t see Bilbo anywhere. “Where’s Bilbo?” he asked, “where’s the hobbit?” They all rushed to the edge and Bofur was sure he’d never felt such an intense terror in his life. “Grab my hand!” he all but screamed, but Bilbo couldn’t, he just couldn’t and he was going to slip any second, and he was going to _die._ Bofur barely saw Thorin swing down, he only watched the fear in Bilbo’s eyes and he felt truly scared. He all but hugged Bilbo as he was pulled up, ignoring Thorin even though Bilbo wasn’t.

He helped the hobbit into the cave they’d found; it was dry and warmer than the snarling winds and rains outside but Bilbo was quiet and obviously disheartened. The poor thing had just faced a horrible brush with death and was soaked through and Thorin had just told him he should never have joined them. He passed Bofur his hat back as he entered the cavern and the dwarf sighed heavily, taking his watch with his pipe in hand.

When Bilbo told him he didn’t understand what it was like to miss home, Bofur had to agree: Bilbo was the closest thing he’d had to a home and the hobbit hadn’t left yet. He wanted to tell him them, to tell Bilbo that to dwarves the great caverns of Erebor and Moria were second to one thing, and that sometimes home wasn’t a place, it was a person, but he didn’t, he only wished him luck. He wanted to say so many other things; he really wanted to ask Bilbo to wait for him in Rivendell, or even let Bofur come, but instead he just clapped him on the shoulder, trying not to lean in too far lest his impulses take over, and the floor of their cave disappeared.

*

Bofur remembered very little of their time under the Misty Mountains: instinct had kicked in and it was mostly a blur of blood, distorted and destroyed goblin faces and the dark: lots of dark. He knew the whole time Bilbo wasn’t nearby on a very base level but his basic needs had dulled that to make sure he got out of there alive.

As soon as Gandalf asked where the hobbit was he felt like he was going to vomit. If Bilbo had been captured by the goblins they would not be kind to him: torture was a great hobby of theirs. Suddenly images of his little hobbit being torn apart entered his head and can’t get them out and he gagged; Bifur grabbed onto his arm. Thorin began speaking of the hobbit so rudely that Bofur began to run through the repercussions of punching Thorin square in the nose, but then Bilbo appeared Bofur almost completely collapsed.

He breathed again, deeply, and steadied himself. He made to stumble over to Bilbo but then the Wargs howled and they ran up trees and bloody Bilbo had to go and bloody save Thorin’s life because it seemed that his goal in life was to make Bofur die from a heart attack. The heartbroken “NO!” that was ripped from Bofur’s mouth when Bilbo stepped between the Pale Orc and Thorin was enough to tell any dwarf too blind to see that Bilbo was his One, but he was well beyond caring by now.

They were rescued by Great Eagles and Bofur miserably wished he was feeling happy enough to enjoy these beautiful creatures, but instead he was trying to breathe; something that he was having great difficulty doing. His own heart was barely beating in his chest, and when they touched down he moved away from the group even as Thorin was taking his hobbit into his arms. He could feel tears stinging his eyes and he was shamed: a strong dwarf doesn’t cry after their young years; no they do not.

Bofur understood why Bilbo would choose Thorin; the man had wealth, muscle, bravery, courage, he was a _king_. Bofur couldn’t even stop crying for long enough to protect his One; he was rubbish and a shame to his family.

Of course, the almost unnoticeable pitter-patter hobbit feet snuck up to him as the dwarves began to make camp with supplies given by the eagles. “Bofur?” a small voice asked, and Bofur didn’t shift at all, he was as still as a statue and as silent as one as well.

“Bofur, what’s wr-“

“You can’t just go and do things like that, Bilbo!” Bofur broke his silence, he couldn’t refrain anymore, but he watched as the hobbit’s face shut down entirely. It could have been the yelling, or the words themselves, but suddenly there was a Halfling on the defensive.

“It’s my own life I’m risking, thank you very much!” he said.

“No, it’s…” Bofur turned away. There truly was nothing he can say. “Leave me.”

“Bof-“

“Leave me,” he said again, and it was more pleading and less of an order and the hobbit sighed and wandered off to the camp. Bofur slumped, exhausted. He knew that taking out his fear and frustration and anger out on Bilbo was not at all the right thing to do, but he just didn’t know what was. The rest of the company began to feed themselves, feeling quite relieved and safe up here where the Eagles lived but Bofur just stared out at the darking landscape and forced himself to appreciate its beauty, pushing all thoughts of Bilbo, Thorin and their quest from his mind and conjuring up the image of his mother’s soft face. He sat with her in the chilling air and they conversed in his mind and she told him of the lands beyond their reach and how she missed him and he felt her smile on his face like the sunshine and he grinned at Bifur when his cousin dropped a bowl next to him and received a rare one back.

Not long after, Gandalf came and sat with him, passing him a pipe already lit; he’d lost his in his pack to the goblins. They were silent as the sun finally dipped beneath the horizon, sitting amiably and puffing away.

“Hobbits marry for life,” said the wizard entirely out of the blue. Bofur inhaled deeply from the pipe before answering.

“They don’t love for life, though,” he wheezed out; it was a strong weed that Gandalf had packed.

“To them it’s the same thing,” replied the man, and Bofur tipped his head thoughtfully. They stared out into the dark, clearly able to see camps of creatures that could not touch them and Laketown far in the distance and finished their pipes. The wizard stood after his smoke and looked down at the dwarf.

“Flowers,” was all he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things: first and foremost I entirely made up Bofur's mother but I think it's lovely. Sorry if you don't. Secondly, half of this fic was written while listening to Skinny Love, sorry if you can feel the vibe through it and you don't want to. Thirdly, thank you all so much for your support, I've never put so much effort into a fic before and every time I get a kudos or a comment it makes me glad I am :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Flowers," was all he said.

 

 

The next morning they were flown by the Lord of the Eagles and his companions to near Mirkwood and Gandalf severely disappointed them by informing them he would once again leave them to attend to other business.

“I will not leave you just yet,” he assured them however, “I can give you a day or two more. We have a day and a half’s walk to the place owned by Beorn, and I may even have the kindness to accompany you to the edge of the forest.”

They were sat in a large field where the Eagles had kindly dropped them with ease, and the grass and the flowers grew well here. It reminded Bofur of Gandalf’s words the evening before and he wandered away from the group a little to a thicket quite vast, though not in comparison to the field. He was rather impressed by the display of flowers, so he picked a few based on the colours of the rainbow: a red lily, a lion’s ear, a daffodil, multiple long-stemmed clovers, a blue tulip, a blue-moon phlox and a violet, wrapped in the stems of weeds. He tied the flowers into a bow before spotting a daisy. He picked that too and then slowly made his way over to Bilbo who wasn’t far away, observing the flowers on his own.

He held the flowers behind his back, approaching Bilbo from behind and clearing his throat. Bilbo turned around with his eyebrows raised and Bofur, suddenly nervous, flourished the flowers at him. “Master Baggins, I wanted to apologise for me harsh words yesterday, is all,” he said, and small hands took the bouquet, the owner of which was flushed a deep red.

“I… uh, thanks, Bofur. These are lovely,” he stuttered, and Bofur laughed a little.

“Aye, I collect ‘em meself,” he said before taking the daisy from the hand still behind his back. He bent over and, quick as a blink, slotted the stem between Bilbo’s ear and his braid. If possible, the hobbit blushed even more, seemingly at a loss for words. He stuttered out a thank you before rushing off and Bofur couldn’t help but let out a grin.

They moved on soon after and Bofur was pleased to note that Bilbo had kept the daisy in his hair. A few amused glances where cast to both of them, but they were studiously ignored. Bofur hefted his mattock to the other shoulder and Bilbo looked up at him from where he was walking by his side.

“Doesn’t that get heavy?” he asked and Bofur rose his eyebrows.

“What, this old thing? Only when I first began using it; you have to be strong to be a miner, lad.”

“But why not choose something easier to carry, like a sword or a bow?” the Halfling asked, and the dwarf looked at him like he was crazy.

“Nah, fellow, I’d not. This ol’ thing packs a wallop, I already know how to use it and it keeps my arms strong and well-muscled, which is helpful in many aspects of a man’s life,” at this he winked, “what’s not to love.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened and he bit his lip, and Bofur was beginning to adore the way the hobbit’s face reddened when he was embarrassed. Unfortunately the ruddy cheeks also led Bofur’s mind to places not quite decent and his trousers became a little tight, so he quickly changed the subject.

“You’d do well to ask Balin to teach you how to use your letter-opener, Halfling,” he said lightly, “he’s very well-versed in swordsmanship, and it might serve useful to have the skill.”

Bilbo nodded and looked down at his sword and up at Bofur’s mattock before looking ahead and pressing on like the rest of them.

*

They camped out in the open with a fire; Gandalf assured them that they were in friendly lands and mentioned something once again of the Beorn fellow they were yet to meet. Unfortunately, with sunset came freezing temperatures and they huddled close for warmth. After dinner Thorin stood and addressed them all.

“As I want none of my company to freeze during this night, I’d advise you pair up and share body heat.” He said nothing more, only adjusted a bed roll next to Dwalin and settle down. Bofur looked over to Bilbo to see the hobbit already looking at him and smiled at him, jerking his head to the side a bit. He rolled out his bedding and the hobbit did the same, making sure they overlapped. Bofur took off his boots and top cloak but kept on his hat for warmth while the hobbit did the same, and they slipped under the covers together.

“How would you be most comfortable, Halfling?” Bofur whispered, and Bilbo shuffled so his back was to the dwarf’s front, shuffled himself down so his ears were covered by the blankets and then he pulled Bofur’s arm over his waist. Bofur tucked his legs up under the hobbit’s and he felt so warm he could barely stand it. They lay there for an hour before Bofur tucked his nose into the back of the Halfling’s neck and brushed his lips ever so slightly against the skin there before falling into dreams.

*

They woke up uncomfortably hot the next morning and Bofur was ashamed to admit his trousers were too tight but Bilbo kindly ignored the evidence of that in favour of the bacon cooking courtesy of Bombur. He snuck Bofur a shy look before he pattered off to the fire and the dwarf watched him languidly in a way that got him a dirty look from Balin. He just grinned and sat up to pull on his boots.

Bofur had to admit that the walks through this part of Middle Earth were quite enjoyable, particularly compared to their other recent trips. Bilbo walked amiably with him for most of the day, speaking animatedly of his 33rd birthday party and how everyone in Hobbiton as well as his relatives and their friends from Buckland and ever some Bree folk turned up and how Old Took had set off some of Gandalf’s fireworks and everyone was very impressed.

Bofur always felt heartened by these kinds of stories; merry making was a specialty of hobbits in a way that even boisterous dwarves couldn’t quite match. He found himself wishing to attend one of these and when he voiced this Bilbo seemed delighted, telling him he’d certainly be invited to the next one.

They reached the edge of Beorn’s land at about midday and found themselves comfortably bathing in a cool stream. Bofur enjoyed the freedom of water against his skin and gave himself and his hair a good scrub, trying to avoid catching the eye of a very nude little hobbit washing himself pink, his hair-daisy rested carefully on his pile of clothes. Bofur dragged himself out as shamelessly at the other dwarves, drying himself in the sun and the hobbit soon joined them, causing a short-lived sunbake for Bofur, whose interest was beginning to show a little too prominently. He set about re-braiding his hair after he donned his clothes and Bilbo came and sat by him expectantly.

“Need some braids done again, lad?” he asked, smiling, and Kili wolf-whistled at them. Bofur marvelled at how swiftly the hobbit’s face turned from pale to tomato red. “Ignore them, Master Baggins, they’re only being childish,” he said, and began work on the hobbits hair. He spied some small red flowers growing by a tree and had an idea. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, and went off to pick some.

When he returned, he began threading the flowers through the braids. “I hope ye don’t mind, Halfling, I’ve added some decorations,” he mumbled, holding one of the flowers in front of Bilbo’s face. He could see the movements of a smile even from viewing the Hobbit from the side.

“They’re a lovely colour, Bofur,” Bilbo said, and they fell into silence, ignoring the rowdy dwarf group not far from them. Bofur was almost finished Bilbo’s fourth braid when the little hobbit piped up again. “Erm, Bofur…?” he said quietly, so he couldn’t be overheard, “does this… um, hair braiding… does it mean something?”

Bofur realised that Bilbo had understood Kili’s jeers and perhaps the looks from the other dwarves all too well. He cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. “Hair-braiding is a tradition amongst our people that is shared between only the people a dwarf cares deeply for; between mother and son, brother and brother and between lovers.” He ended his explanation there, not wanting to give away anything further.

When Bilbo stuttered out, “Which am I?” though, Bofur suddenly felt daring. He leaned in and whispered against Bilbo’s neck as he snapped the clip in his braids, “which would you like to be?” Bilbo gasped and Bofur leant away, his joyous personality back in its rightful place. “All done, me lad,” he said, clapping the hobbit on the shoulders before standing up.

They continued on along the paths, the hobbit just a little bit pleased with his braided locks and his flowers, so pleased in fact that he decided to approach Balin, who was bringing up the rear of the line.

“‘Allo, lad,” he said as Bilbo dropped back, “lovely braids you have there.”

Bilbo smiled and was about to speak, but Balin spoke over him. “Listen up, laddie, and listen well.” Bilbo nodded, silent. “Dwarves love but once in their lives; when they meet the One they are destined to want them forever. Don’t despair, though, they learn to live with it and you’d never be blamed for turning him down.” Bilbo tried to speak then but Balin just continued on. “The hat, the braiding, the worrying about you, probably the flowers – though I’ve never seen it myself – they’re all his way of telling you that he’s interested and that he has fallen for you. You’d be best off not leading him on and letting him down now, in my opinion.”

Bilbo looked to be pondering this and they trudged on, the sun slowly lowering itself down between the trees. Balin watched Bofur, concerned, but the dwarf seemed content to keep carving the bit of wood he had in hands – a toymaker’s skill.

“What if I didn’t want to?” the hobbit asked suddenly and quietly and Balin felt his insides warm.

“Well then, laddie, if that’s the case, I’d say put him out of his misery and tell him how you feel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little bit nervous about this one; I fear it may have gotten boring. I'm planning to spice it up I guess, but I'd love to hear any and all suggestion on the direction of this fic. Thanks so much everyone for your comments and kudos.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift and some alcohol. Also quite possible maybe sex but you'll have to read and find out.

The way in which they wrangled their way into the household of Beorn was clever to say the least. Bofur was impressed by Gandalf’s acting skills after the third pair of them arrived. It was clear that the big man knew exactly what was going on and allowed it, possibly because it amused him. They were silent and well behaved as the wizard told their tale, and Bofur greatly enjoyed their supper with his hobbit at his elbow, though he felt nervous when the great Beorn’s eyes bored into him as he told them chilling stories of the lands surrounding his home.

The company feasted into the night, the cool air surrounding them comfortably unlike the evening before, and Beorn’s animal friends sat around lazily, alert but relaxed. Bofur enjoyed a sweet tea more than he had in a long time, but not nearly as much as Bilbo, who looked like he might cry out of sheer happiness. They told their own narratives after that, and though Beorn was bored by the dwarves’ tales, Bilbo’s recounts of Shire legends interested him in an amused way.

All were glad to be in a safe place, even if only for a while, and they tried not to think of their soon approaching trip through Mirkwood.

When they took to their beds, they found they had already been laid out; Bofur’s a few mats away from the hobbit’s. This saddened him a little and he tossed and turned more than usual, but the safety of the hall allowed him to fall into dreams of blonde curls and red flowers.

Less than two hours later, a small hobbit found himself shifting under the bedding of a certain dwarf. He’d been unable to sleep a wink, Balin’s words running through his mind like a broken record, not leaving him alone until he did something about it. Remembering the night before and how the natural warmth of Bofur lulled him to sleep, he spent a good half an hour debating whether or not he should join the dwarf.

In the quiet of the hall amongst the snores of the dwarves that had slowly become his friends, he picked himself and his blanket up and tiptoed over to the kindest of them all. Bofur was asleep, his breathing even and a little loud, and Bilbo stood there for a good few minutes more, watching and building up his courage. Eventually, sighing as quietly as he could, he placed the blanket over Bofur and crouched down, pulling up the corner. He shuffled underneath a little awkwardly but as silently as it is possible to do so, which is quite so for a hobbit. He rested himself down beside Bofur, who had barely stirred until now, but the dwarf just moulded into Bilbo, throwing an arm across his stomach and sleepily kissing his curls, clearly in the midst of a dream.

Bilbo remembered Balin’s words once more and felt as though he’d never been more comfortable in his life despite being on wooden floors with naught but straw and blankets cushioning it. So he made a decision, feeling daring, and he pressed his lips to Bofur’s. The dwarf made a soft humming noise, still mostly asleep, and pressed his lips back, dropping his hand to the hobbit’s hip. The kissed again and Bilbo felt warmth rush through him; he’d done this only rarely and only with lasses in the Shire, but this was much better.

Bofur lips were warm and plush and the contrast to his scruffy beard and moustache was quite pleasing to Bilbo, and even while half asleep he was much less timid than the hobbit girls he’d gone on walks with in his tweens. The dwarf pulled him closer still subconsciously and Bilbo kissed him again, warming further at the little moan that was produced in the back of Bofur’s throat. Bilbo opened his mouth a little to swipe his tongue across the seam of Bofur’s lips and he grunted, pushing his hips forward a little; whatever he was dreaming of clearly correlated with Bilbo’s actions. Bilbo couldn’t help but gasp when he felt Bofur’s hardness against his leg, but as he slipped his hand down he heard the carrying voice of a certain wizard who would know exactly why he’d was getting an icy attitude from the hobbit the very next day. The man was conversing the Beorn by the sounds of it, and quickly approaching the hall, so Bilbo rapidly broke away from Bofur a little, settling down to sleep. The small amount of space between he and Bofur allowed him to cool himself and his excitement, and though he sighed he found himself quickly able to fall asleep.

“Where is our little Bilbo?” Gandalf asked Beorn under his breath as they enter to see the hobbit’s mat empty.

“Exactly where we knew he’d end up,” Beorn replied, pointing to the two figures curled together in sleep.

*

Bofur woke alone late the next day to find he was very confused. His dreams last night had felt so real; the hobbit’s lips on his were so vivid in his memory that he felt himself heating up at the thought of it. He dispelled those thoughts with a shake of his head and went out to their little camping site to find most of the lads spread out on their back enjoying the sunshine. He found some cold water and splashed it on his face before nicking some of the leftovers the Bombur had kept for himself.

It was a lazy day for Thorin’s company, the leader of which had accompanied Gandalf and Beorn to some forest area or another. Bilbo sat nearby drawing in some dirt with a stick; there was little to keep them entertained. Bofur pulled out the carving he’d been working on. His long history of work as a toymaker made him quite the expert at this sort of craft and the creation was almost done, he just needed to add the finishing touches. He pulled a knife out of his pocket and began shaving tiny little pieces off, all too aware of Bilbo’s presence beside him.

Midday came and went as the creatures all relaxed in the sunshine; all the while Bofur was glancing at Bilbo and remembering his dream last night. Sometimes he caught himself straight out staring and a tightening in his pants told him he had to shake himself out of it. It was a few hours more before Bofur perfected the carving, and he stepped over to Bilbo nervously. He swallowed and cleared his throat and the hobbit sleepily looked over to him. “I… well, I made you… a thing, laddie,” he passed the carving to Bilbo and strode off with purpose, leaving a slightly shocked hobbit behind.

In his hands Bilbo held a small wooden disc with a loop at the top; it was designed to be a pendant. There was a thin border around the perfect carving of a dragon with the wood pushed out around the body. It stood on a thicker bit of the border and into that was carved ‘BILBO’ in the nicest script he’d ever seen. Bilbo wrapped it in a fist and smiled.

The rest of their day was relaxing and uneventful with each dwarf happy enough to do their own thing. They chatted lazily about the things they would do with their treasure and the dwarf lads and lasses they’d left behind in the Blue Mountains. Bilbo was the only one who would still listen to Gloin speak about Gimli, which he thought was mighty unfair considering how much the dwarf must be missing his family. He almost questioned why Gloin came on this adventure, but he knew he’d be grilled if he did.

That night was much the same as the last; good food, good drink and reasonable company. Thorin seemed rather grouchy but everyone was more than happy to ignore his mood. They drank so much wine they all got a little light-headed, especially the hobbit, and they retired to bed early.

Bofur hadn’t had the chance to fall asleep before there was a little hobbit snuggling into his bed. Most of the company were snoring loudly and Bilbo was too drunk to worry about them. He did the same as the evening before with less hesitation, sighing softly when he felt the warmth of Bofur around him.

“Were you havin’ trouble sleepin’, lad?” Bofur asked, his breath warm and tingly against Bilbo’s ear. Bilbo was feeling more than a little reckless and he pushed his body against Bofur’s.

“I wanted to thank you for the pendant.” He pulled it out of his shirt; he had managed to get some silk from one of Beorn’s animal friends earlier that day and had braided it like he would a dwarf’s hair. In the dim light Bofur strained to see it and smiled.

“It was not problem, Halfling. It’s just to remind you that you’re brave.” Bofur was slurring a little bit and his lips were rubbing against Bilbo’s neck and the hobbit could feel heat pooling in his stomach.

“I haven’t faced any dragons yet,” he reminded the dwarf, who chuckled a bit and wrapped his arms further around Bilbo.

“Ah, but when you do, you’ll be ready. Ye will!” he insisted at the disbelief showing on Bilbo’s face. They were silent, listening to the other’s breathing. Bofur’s heart was beating faster than it should and he rest his cheek against the top of the hobbit’s head.

“I saw you watching me today,” little Bilbo whispered and Bofur felt himself blushing, embarrassed.

“I was… just keeping an eye on you, laddie,” he slurred and Bilbo giggled.

“No you weren’t,” said the hobbit, and he pressed his lips to Bofur’s and Bofur sighed and held him even closer, moaning a little and kissing him quite hard. It all felt very familiar, and he said so. The hobbit giggled a little and slipped over him so the warm little body covered him. Bofur’s eyes fluttered closed and he had to resist the urge to thrust upwards.

“I wondered if you remembered last night,” the hobbit whispered deliciously in his ear and suddenly Bofur did, at least a little bit. He moaned, sliding his hands in Bilbo’s hair to bring his face down, kissing him feverishly on the lips before Bilbo submitted and opened him mouth. Bofur shuddered as he felt Bilbo’s tongue slide against his and slipped a hand down to grab the hobbit’s arse in his palm, pressing them together with a moan almost loud enough to wake the others.

“Oh, god, Bilbo,” he said, kissing the hobbit’s cheek and mouth and he began to thrust against him. The feeling was delicious, the blood in his veins hot as arousal shot through him. Bilbo was just as interested, his breathing growing hard and little squeaks escaping his throat with each thrust. He could feel the hobbit’s length hot against his thigh but didn’t have the motor coordination to remove any clothing, so he just slipped his hand between them and pressed against Bilbo’s cock. The little hobbit thrust twice more into the hand holding him before he came with a small growl, Bofur's arms tightening around the shaking creature.

Bofur felt the warmth of Bilbo’s release spread of the fabric and he couldn’t help but dip a finger beneath his waistline to feel the creamy liquid for himself. He brought the finger in front of his face, surveying the stuff and as Bilbo watched, wide eyed and slack jawed, he licked it. The hobbit was spurred on by this and reached his stubby fingers down to press under Bofur underthings, taking his cock in his hand. Bofur gasped at the contact and began thrusting into the tight ring of Bilbo’s hand. It had been a long time since he had done this and he came quickly, whimpering into the hobbit’s hair.

Wiping his hand against the sheet and too drunk to do much more, Bilbo fell asleep next to him and Bofur followed not long after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finally got some raunchy stuff in, I guess. I'm a little nervous about it but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Thanks for commenting everyone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter because I felt I didn't get an overly encouraging reception to the last one. I'd love to know what I did wrong and whether I should bother continuing; university starts in a few weeks and I'm willing to put in the time if people want me to but otherwise I might be better off letting this die down. Let me know what you think please.

Bilbo snuck out to a nearby stream very early the next morning feeling more than a bit vomit-y and crusty and his head throbbed like he’d been hit by Bofur’s mattock. Bilbo blushed at the very thought of the steamy night they had shared, of which he only remembered flashes, particularly the one part where the dwarf had scooped his spilt seed from his underpants and… well, Bilbo felt a tightening in his leggings at the mere thought of it. He took them off, washing his privates and scrubbing at his underthings until they showed almost no sign of what had occurred the evening before wringing them out and putting them on wet. He then splashed his face with water, wanting to get back to their little makeshift kitchen before the other woke.

He was out of luck when he found Bombur cooking at the fire looking no worse for wear from his night of heavy drinking. “Where’ve you been, lad?” he asked as Bilbo approached and sat.

“Just freshening up,” he assured the large dwarf who hummed in a knowing manner. Bilbo glanced at him before sitting down in some grass and waiting for breakfast. The thumping in his head had subsided a little, but he still felt like it’d take a while for the ground to settle itself down. Despite his body’s protestations towards his over-indulgence the evening before he couldn’t help but feel a pleased hum through his body and the sated feeling in his muscles.

He’d never had sex before; Hobbit’s had a lengthy courting process and Bilbo had never really had the time or the inclination to go on more than a few walks with the Hobbiton lasses, so it had never happened for him. He’d never been shy with his hand, but it couldn’t compare with his experience last night, not one little bit.

He chewed happily on a sausage and awaited Bofur’s waking.

*

Though it was strange for a dwarf, Bofur loved sleeping late. He loved the warmth of the sun and the slow, relaxing waking transition, and it was hardly a little known fact, so while his brothers in arms thought he was just having a nice morning snooze, Bofur was free to have an internal breakdown.

He didn’t feel the warmth of the sun, nor did he feel relaxed; Bofur’s world felt cold and lonely and his heart was in his throat. What had he done? He’d let alcohol cloud his mind; he’d taken advantage of his One while he was intoxicated! What would Bilbo think of him? A pervert? A pig? A _rapist_?

Bofur could very easily throw up all over the floor of Beorn’s hall, his stomach sick, his head saw and his body humming, pleased, which only increased his disgust in himself. He could still feel the shivers of fear against him, the terrified gasps; how could he have mistaken them as ones of arousal? He’d likely taken the poor thing’s virginity too.

How could he have done this?

How?

“You hungry, brother?” Bombur asked, dropping a sausage next to him and Bofur jumped about a mile in the air. He wasn’t hungry, though, he was disgusted. He left the Hall through a back door to go to the stream he’d seen; he had to destroy the evidence before it burned holes in his skin. He was covered in his own seed and he’d never before had a problem with it, but now it made him feel dirty and disgusting. How would he even look at Bilbo after this? After violating the young hobbit so? He scrubbed his skin pink and washed the stolen kisses from his mouth and waded for a long time before deciding he had to go back to the hall eventually.

When he did go back, he avoided Bilbo with all of his might, sitting in a far corner with his cousin smoking a pipe half of his face covered with his hat. He just didn’t know what to do. Perhaps the hobbit would like an apology, or would he just rather the dwarf never spoke to him again? He lifted his hat to catch a glimpse of the Halfling and found he was looking directly at him, a broken expression on his face.

*

Bilbo thought that it had been what Bofur wanted; he’d certainly been led to believe it. Where the pendant against his chest had been a gentle reminder that morning of their liaison last night it now burned like a brand at his breast. Bofur hadn’t spoken a word to him; had barely looked at him. Did he feel disgusted by Bilbo’s neediness, perhaps? Was he not inclined to males sexually; after all, he didn’t choose his One. Maybe he had only wanted Bilbo’s friendship, and then he had gone and initiated sex with him.

Bofur had seemed interested last night; more than interested if the state of his body had been any indication but maybe he’d just felt sorry for Bilbo and the closeness of a warm body and the alcohol had addled both brain and body. The dwarf clearly didn’t want to talk on the matter and that left Bilbo with a pit in his stomach. He felt as though he’d spilt everything to his friend only to have it shoved back in his face, unwanted. He sighed.

He really didn’t like adventures.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've jumped ahead a little as the Mirkwood trip didn't seem conducive of any proper conversations what with the Bombur disaster and the loss of food and then the hectic spider issues, so when this chapter starts they've been held captive by Thranduil (and his majestic eyebrows) for about a week.

Bofur stared at the wall of his cell willing for it to change so he would have something interesting to look at. He’d been in there for what felt like weeks with nothing to do to fill in the time between meals but pick at his fingernails and count his breaths. The guards were just this side of rude and definitely aloof and had little of the cheer or grandeur of the high elves under Elrond’s rule, though from what Bofur could tell they liked a good party. He paid little attention to his captors though, other than to accept food from them and dislike them with a small amount of energy. Most of his thoughts were on his brother, his cousin and the hobbit.

Bombur still wasn’t well when they had been captured. His mind was still addled by the elves’ stream and really, he wasn’t one who could hold his own. His strength was in brute force and elves were quick and witty and uncatchable (and inedible) and everything Bombur hates. The elves had at least offered up information about his well-being when asked, telling him that he was being well fed and the effects of the spell were all but dissipated and he truly wanted to believe them but his irrational caring side told him not to until he’d seen the evidence for himself.

They assured him the same of Bifur, too, but the dwarf had been severely poisoned by those darned spiders and Bofur knew that he wouldn’t recover as quickly as the elves thought he should. The poison would make him too unwell to function properly and he would do well to flush it out of his system with an abundance of water, but when he told the elven guard this he got little more than a dirty look and a green dinner. He wondered idly if Ori had eaten anything in their time there, but his thoughts slipped to another being altogether.

Bofur had no doubt Bilbo had escaped. He had the ring and he had his quiet little feet and his speed and his quick thinking; the hobbit escaped. Bofur also trusted that he would survive and make it out of Mirkwood, or perhaps he would meet up with Gandalf and they would make their merry way back to Hobbiton and then hopefully Gandalf would deign to help them. Bofur wanted this to be the case. What he feared was that Bilbo had followed them with grand dreams of executing an escape. He would easily slip past even the sharpest elves, hell, he could be outside Bofur’s room and he wouldn’t know any better. Bofur worried about this because that way danger lay. The hobbit could be caught at any time and the elves would not be so kind to him if they found him somewhere in their lands.

So Bofur fretted and ate little despite his hunger and he would have done almost anything for a wash, but instead he simply wished he had spoken to the hobbit a little more before they had been taken away. He still hadn’t come to terms with what he had done, the horror he had acted out and it still made him sick to think of. What worried him more was the fact he hadn’t apologised to the hobbit; he had barely spoken to him since that night at Beorn’s, despite the week they spent in Mirkwood. The hobbit had been so valiant in protecting them from the spiders and even trekking like a dwarf; he was braver than Bofur, that was for sure. He had openly mocked spiders, cleverly wielding his sword to terrify and annoy them and he slipped away when they were taken by elves. He was such a fierce little hobbit and Bofur’s entire being ached for him.

*

Bilbo sat in front of Bofur’s cell like he had for the last week when he wasn’t sneaking around nicking food, finding a place to hide or trying to figure out a way to get the dwarves out of the darned place. He had spoken to Thorin more than once – his cell was in a darker and more out-of-the-way part of the dungeons, so there were less guards and more chances to speak with the dwarf without being discovered – disembodies voices and dwarf kinds talking to thin air were more than enough reason to get them into serious trouble. Always, though, after the last meal of the day was served to the prisoners and he’d checked on each of the dwarves in turn he found himself sitting in front of Bofur’s cell, watching him fret – for that’s what he was doing.

In this whole week the vigilant night guard had not left her post – she had snoozed, surely, but Bilbo had not been willing to risk capture and punishment for Bofur. He missed the dwarf – sure, he may have felt used and ashamed and perhaps a bit promiscuous after their drunken night, but he had figured it out. It had come to him while he was sitting by some barrels and watching the elves work: he had left Bofur that morning and it occurred to him that perhaps Bofur thought he regretted it. He had spoken to Balin a few mornings later and discovered that regardless of any previous inclination a dwarf would become enamoured with his One ‘in all ways possible’, the older dwarf had told him with a rosy blush. It had confused Bilbo at the time – he didn’t understand why Bofur would cease to speak with him.

It wasn’t until he was idly listening to the elves conversation that he realised that Bofur had been showing signs of self-loathing and it pained Bilbo when he thought back to that week. Bofur must have thought Bilbo didn’t want it; he must have thought he’d forced himself onto Bilbo, and with Bofur’s kind heart it would have ripped him to pieces. Bilbo desperately wanted to speak to him and tell him he had nothing to be sad for and that he wanted him as much as the dwarf wanted Bilbo, but he just hadn’t had the chance. Now, he was slumped against the wall opposite Bofur’s cell, watching him through the bars. The dwarf’s face was in his hands and he looked exhausted, half of his meal uneaten and his hat sat awkwardly on his head. He was just beyond touching distance but his body yearned to feel the dwarf’s skin under his hands and his mind wished to embrace him.

Grandmother Took had spoken to them about this once – when two souls entwine after something ‘special’ happens. She said to them, “It only happens to Hobbit folk, the sickness of love, and you’ll never want to leave them, not ever again.” Granny Took had been a right old bat, Bilbo had no qualms in thinking, though she made a fabulous velvet cake and she was a fountain of knowledge. “It happened to Aunt Brenda, Old Took’s third cousin six times removed, and she went off on an adventure and ended married to Yurdob son of Kilgruk, who was quite a well-to-do dwarf, though you can imagine the uproar of Hobbiton at that.” Bilbo’s father had never liked Grandmother Took; the woman had been on her own fair share of adventures come to that. “It happened to your great cousin Odo Chubb, who fell for an elf – can you believe, an elf – named Gaeron who was a prince of some sort, lucky the lad’s feelings were returned, and not to mention the Silentfeet – oh yes, Cyr and Gerda Silentfoot are indeed both inflicted by the illness, though in their case it’s not much of one, is it?”

Bilbo was shocked out of his reminiscences by an elven voice. “Faelwen,” said the voice, “you’re required in the Great Hall by prince Legolas.”

“But, the prisoners?” the fair-haired elf protested, but soon set her mouth in a tight line and rose gracefully. Bilbo inhaled loudly, seeing his chance. He scrambled over to Bofur’s cell, grasping onto the bars. Before he spoke he watched for a moment; Bofur’s face was pale and gaunt and the hair on his face and head messy and badly braided.

“Bofur,” he whispered and the dwarf’s head shot up.

“Bilbo?” he asked, looking blindly just to the right of Bilbo, his voice cracking from lack of use.

“Bofur, it’s me!” the hobbit whispered harshly, and Bofur jumped up, moving towards the bars. Bilbo had never seen a face transform from forlorn to gleeful so fast.

“Bilbo, lad, cor blimey, am I glad to see you, safe and sound!” he groped towards the bars and Bilbo caught his hand in his own, entwining their fingers. Bofur moved to stand against the bars and before he could think, Bilbo had his fingers wrapped in the grimy hair of the dwarf and was pressing their lips together. A gasp escaped Bofur and Bilbo’s whole body lit up like a Christmas tree, burning in a pleased way. He was definitely afflicted with the sickness, and he couldn’t be gladder.

Bofur decided then and there that kissing an invisible person was by _far_ the strangest thing he’d ever enjoyed, if not the strangest thing he’d ever done. Bilbo’s hand was in his hair and the other linked between his fingers and for a second Bofur forgot about everything except the warmth of the little hobbit’s mouth and the happy hum of his body. He pressed his lips harder and Bilbo sighed and he let his eyes slip shut. The little hobbit pulled away though, and reality rushed back in like a waterfall.

“Bombur! Bifur!” Bofur cried out, and Bilbo hushed him, stroking his face softly. There was no other sound, and so Bofur’s voice echoed through the long hall.

“I’ve been checking them every day, Bofur, they’re fine. Bifur has recovered from the poisoning as the elves had an effective antidote against the spiders’ poison, and Bombur is working at full capacity again, though he, like Ori, is vehemently protesting all of the greens on his dinner plate.” Bofur chuckled like that, relieved more than he could express. Hearing it from Bilbo was much more of a reassurance than hearing it from elven guards who didn’t want to make a fuss. “As for the night we spent together at Beorn’s,” Bilbo said, and Bofur tensed, “I believe we had a misunderstanding.” Bofur looked at him with fear in his eyes, his breathing coming faster, so Bilbo put him out of his misery. “I wanted it. I wanted you, and I still do.”

Bofur laughed softly, tears of happiness coming to his eyes. “Oh Bilbo, I’d been so afraid and angry at myself, you’ve no idea how glad I am to hear those words.” He laughed again in wonder, pressing a kiss blindly to the hobbit’s forehead, before tensing again. “Bilbo, you shouldn’t be here, you can’t!” light footsteps were coming down the stairs, “go, find Gandalf, get him to take you back to the Shire. It’s too dangerous for you here!” Bofur’s words became a harsh whisper as his eyes flicked to the end of the hallway. Bilbo fingered at the pendant still hanging around his neck and smiled pressing a quick kiss to the dwarf’s cheek before parting with these words:

“No. I’m getting you out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Just... wow. Thank you guys so much for such an overwhelming response to my doubts. I just cannot thank you enough. I've written you another chapter. I will do more, though I cannot promise regularity with posting as I will (hopefully) be moving, but I can assure you they will be there eventually. They will!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laketown and creamy hobbit skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hurt me! Also warning: there is sexy things in this, so don't read it if you don't like it mmhmm. You comments and kudos are the reason I write! (also feedback on the sex(ish) scene would be lovely because I'm still a bit iffy about those).

Get them out Bilbo did, quite ingeniously, if not uncomfortably. By the time they’d made it far enough down the stream to find civilisation they were well clear of Mirkwood, something Bofur couldn’t help but be grateful for – it wasn’t his sort of place, what with the murderous spiders and the mind addling water and the bitter elves that resided there. Bofur was thankfully a reasonably dry dwarf, but the stiffness in his knees that he inherited from his mother was affecting him, causing every move to be accompanied by a sharp stab of pain, and so he wasn’t able to help Bilbo – who looked rather shivery – or Thorin find the rest of their company in the barrel raft that the elves has used to take them all the way through the darned forest and out to the rolling hills and the vast lake of Laketown. The sun of Bofur’s face was so welcome he laughed even though he could barely move, though the look Bifur gave him shut him up quick smart. He lay back on the soft grass and watched the others grumble and moan and generally dislike Master Baggins.

The hobbit. Bofur hadn’t been able to get their shared kiss out of his head for days. He knew they still had things to discuss; he didn’t even know where he stood with the lad. Bofur had been courting him since he left Bag End, yes, and usually the coming together of two dwarves is quite a quick process once the heads of the clans approve, but he hadn’t a clue how things worked with hobbits. Gandalf had given him some help with the flowers, it seemed after he had braided them through the hobbit’s hair that Bilbo figured out his intentions, at least. They’d had a steamy night, which Bofur remembered much more pleasantly now he knew that the hobbit had felt the need he had, but then due to their misunderstanding and a wretched forest few words had been spoken between them. Bilbo’s behaviour through the bars of the elven cells had certainly been tender, but the hobbit had been alone and invisible for nigh on a week when he’d seen Bofur, and speaking to a friendly face may have let loose a rush of emotions that the hobbit had kept close before. So, he had no idea where he stood with Bilbo Baggins. He knew where he wanted to, though.

Having thoroughly soaked in the sun and stretched out, the dwarfs traipsed towards the Laketown, Thorin confident that they would be welcomed and the hobbit sneezing more than was warranted. Without speaking, Bofur slipped over and plopped his hat on Bilbo’s head before disappearing into the crowd that had begun to surround them. He saw Bilbo look around for him before sneezing heavily and then the crowd swallowed them both. The master of Laketown was a rather repugnant man and Bofur thankfully had little to do with him; he was seated near the other end of the long bench at dinner, surrounded by his cousin and Ori and Oin. Bilbo was seated near Thorin and that fact made Bofur feel a little jealous inside, though he knew it was irrational. Their future king may have many unlikeable qualities but he was a man of his word. He put thoughts of the Halfling out of his mind as much as he was able to and savoured the food, for it was good food, very similar to what he remembered having as a young dwarf; cuisine varied per area of Middle Earth. He ate plenty, making up for the scant elven meals and then the days of nothing but water as they snuck their way out of Mirkwood. Beside him, his fellow dwarves chatted merrily and he concentrated on joining them, though he could feel the stare of his brother from up the table. He made a note to avoid Bombur for the present as he was unusually good at sensing the moods and worries of others.

The sleepiness hit them not long after they’d finished their meals, and servants to the master began to accompany them to their bathing area, though most of their group decided to forego a bath considering the amount of water they’d been subjected to. In the bathhouse remained Bofur, Bilbo, Thorin, Dwalin and Dori, and the bath was big, so they all spread to their own area of water. Bofur was already bathing when Bilbo walked to the dark end and began to remove his clothes. The hobbit unbuttoned his shirt slowly, facing the wall, and Bofur couldn’t take his eyes off the creamy, hairless skin that was being revealed. He wanted to run his fingers over it and he could feel his nether regions perking up. The undershirt came off and Bofur could appreciate the slight muscle that had begun developing, likely because they’d been eating little and adventuring a lot. The hobbit began working on his belt and his pants and underwear quickly slid down his bottom and to his ankles. Bilbo had surprisingly muscular legs; Bofur could see the thick chords of muscles snaking up to his white, blush bum. He quickly turned around and Bofur’s eyes were level with the thicket of curling dark brown hair of his groin that was framing a slightly pink, wide penis, underneath which hung heavy testicles.

Bofur swallowed, looking away as Bilbo turned towards him while taking off Bofur’s hat, hyper aware of his erection now that he wasn’t entranced by the hobbit’s skin. He turned away from the others before slipping from the pool and quickly covering his body with a towel. He didn’t look back as he scooped up his clothes and hair beads and swiftly left the pool area to his room. He ran across the street with an uncomfortable erection to his bedding quarters, not stopping to appreciate the beauty of the town as he usually would. All he could see was the creamy expanses of Bilbo’s skin and his thick cock, shorter than Bofur’s but definitely wider, and how had he not noticed that when he’d had a hand around it? Those thoughts just deepened his situation and so he tried to blank his mind as he ran towards his room. He opened the door and threw in his clothes, closing it again and leaning back against it. He let his towel drop and looked down to see his own semi-erection.

Bofur swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, remembering the nude hobbit wearing his hat, the way his hair had curled down from underneath it, how plush his bottom was. The dwarf let his hand drop to his stomach, tracing lines as he thought of grabbing those creamy round globes and digging his fingers in, his mind supplying the grunts and groans that such a move would elicit from the hobbit. He gripped his cock then, at the very base, and pulled upwards slowly, watching his foreskin try to cover his glans as he felt himself get heavier. He closed his eyes again, bringing his hand back down his shaft, and licked the other, rubbing it over his testicles and imagining it as the tongue of the Halfling. Stroking faster as he brought his fingers back up to his mouth as his mind reminded him of the sharp tang of Bilbo’s semen, and he suddenly shoved four fingers in his mouth, sucking voraciously, picturing Bilbo above him, thrusting into his mouth, hands threaded through his hair. His other hand, the one wrapped tightly around his cock, wanked ever faster, and he knew this exercise would be over all too soon. His mind wandered to Bilbo’s thick, thick length and he let out a choked, gasping moan, pulling his slick fingers from his mouth and letting them drop behind him. He debated for a moment before pressing a finger to his entrance – he’d done this before, when he was younger, but he’d never gotten more than a finger in. Thinking of Bilbo’s fat cock, though, he knew he’d have a lot more to fit in if they ever did that, so he thrust a first finger in. The gland he’d heard rumours of as a younger lad but never had success finding almost jumped out at him as he thrust his stubby finger in and out, and almost pushed him off the door with the force of the pleasure. He stroked it again, harder, but found that that only hurt a bit, so he touched it again while jacking himself and slid down the door slightly, spreading his legs and groaning hollowly. He licked his dry lips before spitting on the hand that cranked his cock, and slowly pushed a second finger in, feeling full already, and open and a little bit whorish, and he bellowed as he came, his see shooting across the room and his arsehole clenching around his fingers. He collapsed as the waves of his orgasm rushed through him and he opened his eyes to find the floor of his room very close to his eyes. Exhausted and aching for more, he gingerly pulled his fingers from himself and set about wiping up the mess he’d made with his towel. There was a small cup of drinking water on a table near the sleeping mat but he used it to clean himself, scrubbing the not entirely pleasant smell off his fingers and part of his release off his stomach.

As he lay down to bed, he closed his eyes and began to drift, but a small knock at the door drew him from his resting. He tumbled out of bed a little and grabbed at his underpants, knowing he reeked and looked of sex, but opened the door anyway. Bilbo was standing outside his door, Bofur’s hat in his hands. Bofur didn’t bother to cover himself up, but looked awkwardly at Bilbo.

“Bilbo, me lad, it’s late.” The hobbit looked down at his feet in apology and Bofur open the door wide, stepping aside. “Come in, I wanted to talk to ye, anyway.” Bilbo shuffled in, clearly unwell, and coughed into his sleeve. Bofur squeezed his eyes closed, trying to think of anything other than his recent little death, as the hobbit sat down on his mat. He sat on the floor to thoroughly avoid temptation and looked over at the hobbit.

“Er, Bilbo, has anyone explained to you that we dwarfs, well, we have a…”

“A ‘One’?” Bilbo interrupted, and Bofur looked at him, surprised.

“Where’d ye hear that, lad? You’re right, of course, but who…?” He ran through the dwarves in the company, knowing that a hobbit wouldn’t know about dwarf relations unless he was directly told by one of them – it was a weakness in many cases, and the knowledge needed to be protected.

“Balin… he told me. He also said, well, he said that I’m your… that I’m your One?” The hobbit swallowed and looked away after Bofur slowly nodded, his mouth very dry. Bilbo continued, “the thing is, Bofur… I don’t understand why? I’m nothing special.”

At that Bofur frowned, shuffling forward to take Bilbo’s hand. With the other he took the hat and put it back on Bilbo’s head. “That’s why, Bilbo,” he said, pointing to his head, and then his chest. “You’re my One because of the way you look in this hat.” Bilbo looked confused and opened his mouth to clarify, but Bofur continued. “You’re my One because you’re brave, and fierce, and kind, and moral.” He took both of Bilbo’s hands, this time, rubbing his thumbs along the palms, “you’re very attractive – don’t argue – and you have soft hair and a body stronger than it looks, and you’re a fantastic cook, and a wonderful story-teller, and you’re funny and daring and quite clever, and you like adventures even if they are a bit nasty and disturbing, and you have lovely eyes and my heart races every time I look at you.”

Bilbo smiled at him, a big smile, and the kind of smile that indicates you might cry from happiness, and he kissed Bofur softly on the lips. “Thank you,” he said, and rested his head on Bofur’s shoulder for a moment. Bofur pulled away a little to rummage through his discarded shirt. He pulled out a sold metal ring with the most beautiful jewel in the world set into the middle. He turned back to Bilbo and held it out to show him. Bilbo’s eyes widened a little.

“This was my great-great-great-great-great grandfather’s ring. When the Arkenstone was found by Thrain son of Nain King Under the Mountain, he was a very important part of politics of the dwarves of Erebor, and so he was gifted with a shard of the Arkenstone. This is one of the only heirlooms that remain of my family.” Bilbo ran his fingers over the stone, entranced. Bofur knew that Bilbo was finally seeing what Thror son of Dain became obsessed with, but he let the hobbit look for a moment. “Bilbo,” he said, and the hobbit looked up at him, “I know this may seem a little forward or perhaps that we are going in the wrong order, but chaotic times are ahead and while we are in the eye of the storm, I would like to ask you a question.” Bilbo nodded and Bofur’s heart suddenly sped up incredibly fast, adrenaline melting through his veins and to the tips of his fingers. It felt like something of a heart attack. “Would you marry me?”

And the heartbeat reached his ears, so he heard nothing as Bilbo dropped the ring and ran out of the room.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advice comes from an unexpected place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dialogue heavy and unbetaed, sorry. Also from here on out will be a bit of an AU. I'm tired and unsure of this chapter, please let me know whether I should rewrite it. I really like the idea of the other pairing here and it's been done once or twice before but if you don't like it I can change it.

Bilbo Baggins had so many problems he couldn’t keep track of them. The most daunting one, at the moment, was the fact that he was standing out the front of a mountain that currently contained a dragon that would happily fry him to death without a second thought, and it was his job to go and have a chat to him. The only ( _only_ ) upside to this problem was that it was quite straightforward – he would go in, and, if he had a reasonable amount of luck on his side, he would come out again.

His other main problem was, of course, that the dwarf he was in love with wanted to marry him. This predicament, however, led itself off to plenty of other issues until it became a big family tree of tricky. Right now, Bilbo wanted to speak to Gandalf quite desperately – Gandalf had the answers he was looking for; Gandalf must know about the love sickness of hobbits. For all that Grandmother Took told the young hobbits about the successes of the sickness, it wasn’t called a sickness for nothing. He told himself to stop worrying; he might not even have it, but he was lying to himself. Because once he’d acknowledged it, the _other_ stories started popping up in his mind – the ones of hobbits who were rejected by their lovers and who lost their spice for life: they stopped going for walks, stopped going to the local waterhole, and stopped attending parties (even the best ones). Those people, eventually, stopped bathing, stop washing their clothes and homes, stopped sleeping, stopped eating. Those with love sickness, eventually, stopped living. Bilbo didn’t want that, not at all. He’d rather love no one in his whole life than die from the pain of it being unrequited, yes sir.

There was another thing though; a big _big_ thing. Bofur wanted to marry him. Despite the love sickness and all of this silly ‘One’ business, he was still Bilbo Baggins. _Of Bag End._ He was a Baggins through and through: he loved his green door and his plush cushions and his teapots and his mother’s glory box and his desk with his books and his maps and the lovely smell of oak mixed with fertile soil that only a hobbit hole – indeed, only _his_ hobbit hole – could produce. He wasn’t built for hot, steamy, sweaty forges and worlds of stone and darkness and an over-abundance of gold – he may be a bit of a Took at inconvenient times (like when trolls steal their horses or when an enormous orc the size of himself ten times over attacks the leader of their company or, possibly most memorably, when he agreed to go and burgle a dragon – that one took the cake), but he wasn’t a dwarf.

Bofur loved him – he couldn’t help it, he was destined to for the rest of his existence, whether it was miserable or joyous, and it was very possible that Bilbo loved him back albeit in an incredibly destructive and deadly way. He couldn’t live in Erebor though; it would destroy him, and he couldn’t ask Bofur to leave – he’d come all of this way to find a home. So what could he do? What he’d been doing since Bofur proposed, which was a week ago – avoid him desperately. It had been easy enough while he had a cold, but it just so happened that they were nearing the Lonely Mountain at an alarming rate; it was likely they’d be there tomorrow. Bilbo wanted to talk to Gandalf desperately, as Balin was out of the question – he’d been receiving utterly murderous looks from the dwarf since the proposal.

Bilbo had only Kili and Fili to talk to and even they were stiff and slightly grudging, though Thorin seemed only too pleased to have the Burglar around with them. Despite the cooling of the air – winter would be soon approaching - he’d seen nothing of Bofur’s hat, and found himself sorely missing it and its comfort. Bifur spat every time he saw the hobbit and Bombur only grudgingly fed him when he cooked, and only with the worst bits. Bilbo barely noticed. He only saw Bofur: he saw the creases in his face, the sadness in his eyes; heard his muffled sobs in the dark of night when they were the only two awake.

They were stopping. The company had been wearily trekking towards the mountain: many of them had found their stay in Laketown hadn’t revitalised them at all, leaving them just as exhausted as they had been in the cells of the elves. Bilbo gratefully dropped his bag on the hard soil and slumped down, hungry and sore and still recovering from his head cold. He wanted to cry; he wanted to be home in his hobbit hole with his fireplace and his soft bed and away from this mountain and the dwarves who hated him for rejecting one of their own. The birds were scarce out here but the view was nice, so he looked out to Middle Earth, his eyes closing, but suddenly opening again when he felt a rough hand yanking him up under the shoulder and lifting him clear off the ground. He looked around in fright back to the company and locked eyes with Bofur who looked like he was about to speak up, but Balin’s hand on his arm seemed to stop him.

He was carried a little way through some shrubbery and then Dwalin tossed him quite roughly against a tree. He hefted his war hammer off his shoulder and stood over Bilbo threateningly. Bilbo looked up at him in terror and whimpered. The dwarf was most certainly the most imposing figure he’d ever met and more than once Bilbo had been glad he was on the friendly side. Now, it appeared, he wasn’t. He was about to speak, to plead, when Dwalin spoke.

“You’d better start explainin’ quick smart, laddie, ‘fore I turn you into a smear of hobbit jam. Wargs’ll love that,” he growled down at Bilbo, who was shaking quite violently by this point. He stuttered out a few words that might have been distant relatives of ‘what?’ and Dwalin continued. “Why is it, hobbit, that after Balin gave you sound advice, we still ‘ave a certain dwarf out there waiting for an answer, hmm?”

Bilbo tried to choke something out, so Dwalin remained quiet. He looked away, briefly, before looking back up. In the quietest oh all hobbit voices, his voice shaking from fear and sadness, he stared Dwalin in the eyes and said, “I don’t want to leave Bag End forever.”

Dwalin looked down at him fiercely, his jaw clenching, before he sighed heavily out of his nose and swung himself down and around see he sat next to Bilbo, leaning against the tree. He swallowed loudly and looked to the hobbit next to him, who was still shaking, believing he’d had a brush with death. He spoke quietly.

“Bofur’s not the only dwarf who has found the One on this journey of ours,” he said, his voice barely audible, but the hobbit looked up quickly.

“W-who…?” he stuttered, and Dwalin sighed again, looking tired and a little bit dismayed. He looked out over the view, and he could still see Mirkwood, but even that was too far.

“When Erebor has been retaken by Thorin, I will not remain. I will travel back through Mirkwood to be with Beorn, at his carrock; we will marry.” Bilbo just gaped, so Dwalin continued. “I’m not foolish enough to believe he loves me back, and I don’t know if I ever will. He’s older than these trees, and an Endling, but he is roud and destined for great things and kind enough to spend the time I will live with me.”

Bilbo looked up at him, thoroughly confused. “But… Erebor? After all of the effort you’ve put into reclaiming it? Why would you leave?”

Dwalin grimaced, turning away slightly. “There is no place for me in Erebor, not anymore. I see it much as you would – cold, stony, lightless and full of unnecessary gold. I crave the open planes and the animal and the fresh air and water of the Anduin. Of course, it would be nothing to me if it were not what Beorn loved and where he was.”

He looked down a Bilbo, who seemed to be processing the information. His teeth worried his lip and he looked intensely at a yellow leaf by his feet. He addressed the leaf when he spoke. “No. I couldn’t take Bofur away from Erebor. He wants a home so very badly, and I couldn’t stay there with him. He’d be better off without me.”

“Bofur’s had a home since he met you,” Dwalin said, abruptly, and Bilbo looked up a little startled. “He doesn’t want to be in Erebor anymore. He wants to be in an earthy, woody hobbit hole with trimmed gardens and friendly barkeeps and slightly judgemental neighbours. Like you, every few years he’ll get an itch to go on an adventure, and you will come here to Erebor for a visit and then you will return and relish your comfort more than ever. You are Bofur’s home.”

Bilbo was silent for quite a while after that, but Dwalin got the feeling the conversation wasn’t yet over, so he sat in silence. The birds were tweeting rarely as the area here wasn’t fertile but the trees rustled in the wind and that alone reminded him of Beorn; big, strong Beorn. Bilbo sighed deeply and Dwalin pulled himself out of his daze to find the hobbit remained silent, so he leant once again back against the tree and looked out to Middle Earth. He did not know how long the mountain reclamation would take: Thorin had granted his permission for Dwalin to leave as soon as the mountain was secure but Beorn and Gandalf were concerned about stirrings in the north and they’d both wish to be there to fight, so that was where Dwalin wanted to be. He hadn’t had the time to ask Beorn why he so viciously hated the Orcs and he wasn’t sure what kind of answer he would get, if any, but he wanted to protect Beorn and to help him.

“Be that as it may,” Bilbo piped up, and Dwalin dragged himself to the present, “there is still the issue of the illness.” Dwalin looked severely concerned all of a sudden, so Bilbo quickly spoke, assuring him he wasn’t afflicted with a fever or worms or lumps. “Amongst hobbits there is an affliction, I expect similar to a dwarf finding his One, but instead of turning to gold and jewels… well… I suppose they die of sadness. The stop eating and they stop sleeping and they just sit there until they die, if their love isn’t returned.”

Dwalin was standing up at the point, stretching his back. “An’ you think you have it, Halfling? Well, wouldn’t the smart thing to do be marry ‘im, then? He can’t leave you, ye’ll never get sad and die. Easy peasy.” Bilbo looked at him thoughtfully and nodded slowly. Dwalin was almost out of the little clearing before he was stopped by a voice.

“Dwalin!” He swung around in a way only a truly bulky dwarf could and raised his eyebrows. “Beorn, really?” said the hobbit. Dwalin laughed, loud and boisterous and much more like the raucous and rambunctious dwarf he knew.

“The man turns into a giant bear. What more could you want?” He was still laughing when he left Bilbo to his thoughts.

*

Bilbo’s heart was thumping viciously in his chest. He had truly never been so scared in his life. He looked into the gaping dark of the cave and back to the dwarves that looked at him expectantly. He told himself he was being ridiculous; he’d come all this way to do just this. It wouldn’t do to let them down now. Bofur was standing with Bombur away from the group and Bilbo could see they weren’t talking, just standing there together. He knows Bofur is worried; he still hadn’t spoken to him, but he’d made a decision.

He looked back at Thorin before grimacing and leaning against the mountain, asking him to go over his instructions one more time. It was basic, but during Thorin’s short distraction gave Bilbo enough time to think over his next actions. Thorin and Balin were watching him again, so he cleared his throat and nodded decisively, slipping on the ring. But he didn’t walk into the corridor towards the dragon; he stalked quietly around the group of dwarves to where Bofur was seated on a log, alone.

He stepped carefully, avoiding all twigs and branches until he reached Bofur. He leaned in, carefully, and whispered in his ear. “Bofur, don’t move. I just wanted to tell you, in case I die in here, that I love you.” He stroked Bofur cheek with the backs of his fingers and the dwarf swallowed heavily, on the verge of tears. “If we make it out of this alive, I’ll marry you Bofur. I love you.”

A barely whispered “I love you too,” followed him to the dragon.


End file.
